The Alley (13 page)

"I don't think," said Billy, "that I will take the bone clue home with the other clues, after all. It might poison Atlas. He'd be sure to find it. You know Atlas—finds everything, and ... was it big?"

"Oh, yes," said Connie, "a big round bone."

"It wouldn't fit in my safe then?"

"Oh, no," said Connie. "It would not fit in your safe, nor mine either," she said, not wanting it.

"We better leave the bone in the trash can so the trash collectors will take it away," said Billy.

"Yes," said Connie. "That would be best. Mittens or Punk might lick it, too, if someone took it out."

"And die," said Billy.

"Die," said Connie.

"That was a good idea of Hugsy's, though—take it to the drugstore, have it analyzed," said Billy.

"The police should have done that, but they didn't,' said Connie.

"No. We'll leave it then," said Billy. "We have clues enough to spare this one old bone one."

"Clues to spare is right," said Connie happily. "The most wonderful day of my life," she thought, swinging.

A number of days passed. The burglary was rarely mentioned; it was half forgotten by most of the children of the Alley—not by Connie, of course, nor by Billy Maloon, who was the keeper of the clues. Even in their minds, the famous day was becoming a part of the past, momentous but nevertheless—past. The police must have forgotten the burglary, too, for they did not come back with the suits and other stolen things and say, "Found!" It was early June now. Vacation days would soon be here, and the nearer they came, the more impatiently they were awaited.

Down in the Circle, the games went on—Meece, a new knights-in-armor game, all the old ones; balls were being bounced against the high brick wall in the Circle that brought the Alley to an abrupt but convenient end—it made the Alley private, and you could bounce balls against it without anyone yelling. Some children began writing in chalk again on this wall and on Mrs. Carroll's and Bully Vardeer's walls. In the main, Katy's laws were being followed with remarkably few in opposition.

Little ones and big ones came into Connie's yard, obeying
her
rules, just so they could swing, swing. It was truly a real playground. "Jane," said June's pretty mother. "How many sessions do you have there in your yard every day?" she'd joke. "Is this the second or the third? Oh, I see. This is the kindergarten session," she'd say, when Notesy and Jeannie finally got in.

Today Connie and Billy were swinging. At the moment, no game was going on in the Circle. Some children of Connie's age had trooped down into the Arps' cellar a few minutes ago. You could hear them playing ping-pong and laughing; and above everybody else's, you could hear Katy's quick-speaking, positive voice. "Now, Ray," she said. "You know you can't win every time. Well, get mad, if you want, so what!" Then there was quiet.

Connie caught a glimpse of Mama walking Wagsie down No-Name Street, the little street next to the Circle outside the Alley. The sight reminded her of the bullet-head man and the burglary. Suddenly, she had a wonderful idea. "You know what, Billy?" she said.

"No," he said. "What?"

The nice thing about Billy was that he never tried to take words out of your mouth; he waited for you to say what you wanted to say, and he did not guess, whether rightly or wrongly, and say, before you had a chance to, what you were about to say and spoil it all.

"I've been thinking," said Connie. "How about having a trial in the Circle? Some could be the burglars, and some could be the policemen—the two first policemen and the two second policemen. In the trial we would try to find out who got the diamond ring—the real burglars or the two first policemen. There would be parts enough for everybody," she said.

"O. K.," said Billy. "Let's tell the others."

"O. K." said Connie. "You call them. You tell them."

"Well..." said Billy. "It was your idea."

They kept on swinging because neither Connie nor Billy wanted to be the one to tell the others, to call them and explain the game. Anyway, it was Katy Starr's job in the Alley to call the others and to get everybody to do something, play some game. It was not Connie's or Billy's job, and neither wanted to say, "Hey, kids!" So, here they had thought up a great game, and they were stuck with it.

As luck would have it, at this very moment, out of the Arps' cellar streamed the others, Katy first. "Come on," she said. "Connie! Come on! Billy, come on! Everybody down in the Circle. New game! New game! We are going to have a trial, a trial of the crooks and the policemen crooks—crooks or not, we'll soon find out."

Connie looked at Billy and Billy looked at her. What a coincidence! Katy had thought up the same game that Connie had. Some day, thought Connie, she and Katy might grow to be really great friends, as she and Clarissa used to be. Katy and she had so many of the same ideas; they loved so many of the same books; they thought the same things funny. Naturally, Connie did not tell Katy of the coincidence of both of them having thought up the trial at the same moment. If they ever got to be really great friends, she'd tell her of the coincidence. Then, "Katy," she'd say. "Listen to this," she'd say. "We both thought up the trial in the Circle at the same time." Katy would smile.

Billy Maloon jumped out of the swing, and closing the gate behind them, not to let Wags out, he and Connie joined the others in the Circle. About fifteen children all told, so far, were down there—almost enough for every part that had to be played; besides, some could play more than one part.

First, everybody sat down on the curb and quickly reviewed the events of the day of Connie's burglary. Few had forgotten any of them. Connie, like Papa and Nanny, stemmed from a long line of good storytellers, and her telling of the burglary on Alumni Day had stuck in their minds for always.

"All right," said Katy. Everyone suddenly became more alive than usual—that was the wonderful electric effect Katy had on people. "We are now going to solve the famous Brooklyn Burglary Case called, 'Who got Mrs. Ives's diamond ring?' We'll hold court, right now, this very morning, June the third. Who wants to be burglars? Who wants to be policemen? Who the jury? I'm the judge."

There was silence, all parts being tempting.

"It was, or it may have been, a double burglary," said Billy.

"Yes, great! Two to solve," said Connie.

"That means that practically everybody—seven, anyway—can be a burglar, or rather, a possible burglar. No one, you know, can be called a burglar unless so proven," said Billy.

"I'll be the judge," said Katy again. No one could quarrel about that. With Katy, a born lawmaker, the judge, the trial would be a good one. "I'll get my father's acamadic robe," she said.

"Macadamic," said Hugsy. "Robe!" he said. "I thought macadamic a sort of nut.... We have them sometimes, for the president."

"Acamadic," said Katy. "Nothing to do with nuts," and she went into her house, which was on the Circle, the next to last one on the Waldo Place side of the Alley, and came back out with her father's robe. The full black robe was long on Katy and quite hot; but it was impressive and gave a real courtroom air to the whole proceeding.

"Oh, she's a great girl," thought Connie. "Knows how to do everything—everything!"

"Now," said Katy. "Silence in the courtroom. The judge—that's me, ahem—is going to speak. Oh," she said. "We need a whatcha-ma-call-it."

"Gavel," said Jonathan Stuart, the son of Mama's friend who had telephoned for the police on the day of the real burglary.

"Yes," said Katy. "Has anyone a gavel? I have to pound with it to keep order."

"We do," said Connie. And she ran home to get the wooden mallet that Nanny cracked ice with for her Cokes. In the South, they never serve Cokes without cracked ice and a piece of lemon. "That's the way they do," said Nanny, and she said that in the North, no one knew how to serve a decent Coke. "Too sweet," she said, "not enough ice," she said, "and no lemon. Ugh!" It was lucky that Nanny was still in the South right now, or she might not have let Connie have her important ice mallet ... she had brought it from Chester. Connie flew back with it, looking like an Olympics' torch carrier.

Now, with her father's academic robe and with Nanny's mallet, Katy was a real judge. "Silence," she said, pounding the trash can that was going to be her desk. "Silence in the courtroom. The judge is going to..." Katy was about to go into a long speech.

Billy interrupted. "The judge," he said, "doesn't talk much. He speaks when he charges the jury—that is the most important thing that he does, that and passing the sentence. He tells the jury what the penalty will be if the guy—I mean guys—are found guilty."

Connie thought that perhaps Billy Maloon, not Katy Starr, should be the judge—he knew so much. "Judge Maloon." It sounded fine. Moreover, have you ever heard of a lady judge? "Who knows, though," thought Connie. "There may be lady judges. I haven't heard of all the judges there are. If there aren't, let Katy Starr be the first lady judge!"

"Let's see now," said the lady judge. "Some of the jury can be girls. I've heard of lady jurors. They have ladies on juries now."

"And are they lousy!" said Ray Arp. "They're unfair. That's what they are—unfair. To men. Can't trust them."

"Oh, yeh?" said Billy. "That's not so, and besides, in this Alley, you're the unfair one, see?"

Ray's face grew red and angry. "Billy is stuck on Connie; that's why he defends ladies on juries," he shouted.

Billy Maloon flushed and looked down. Then he said—the words coming through clenched teeth—"You want to know something? Well, you're really stuck on her yourself. That's what."

"Yikes!" Connie wished she wasn't there. She rolled her eyes around to show she had nothing to do with anything.

Katy, ignoring the distasteful interruption, said that nobody could be a burglar or a policemen or anything if they were going to fight; and she said she would throw off her judge's garb, cast down her gavel, and go in the house if they didn't play right. With these words, Katy restored order.

Then Katy named the parts. Connie's was easy—she was to play the part of herself, Connie Ives, the robbed one. Billy Maloon was to be her lawyer, the prosecuting lawyer. This was fair, since Billy was in possession of all the clues, even carrying the piece of bloodstained curtain in his pocket—he often showed it to the kids in school, imagine!—also the burnt-out Mura butt, crumpled and in a piece of cellophane, and "Stanley"; likewise his drawn picture of bullet-head. Too bad he had not kept the bone. Billy was going to try to prove that the two first policemen, not the real, right burglars, had stolen Mrs. Ives's ring. His was a very hard part; but he could do it—Connie knew that he could do it—prove that ladies like her mother could see through pockets and hear voices.

Ray Arp, Hugsy Goode, Arnold Trickman, Jonathan's little brother known as Brother Stuart, and Stephen Carroll were to be the five real robbers, the ones who broke into the house in the first place, leaving clues everywhere, including fingerprints. Billy and Connie did not know how to get fingerprints off or their low-down on the robbers would have been complete.

Greggie Goode (he was a very good actor, which is why, though small, he was given this important part) was to be Sergeant Rattray. (They began, now, to call him "Ratty.") You couldn't imagine Greggie stealing anything, let alone telling lies. He was practically a saint and resembled Tiny Tim. Laura Fabadessa was to be the other policeman, Officer Ippolito. One of these two policemen, if Mama's hunch was right, was the stealer of the ring, and maybe of the ancestral jewels, too—though Mama's hunch had not gone that far. She had not seen cuff links or the Phi Beta Kappa key through the blue serge pocket. But then, at that time, she had not known they were gone!

June Arp and Judy Fabadessa were the two cellar policemen. They complained because they did not think the parts important. "You can both also be on the jury," said Katy. How well Katy managed everything! Kept all in order! For the two complained no more.

The jury consisted of the following: Jonathan Stuart, head man; Anthony Bigelow (to sit next to Jonathan, so that dependable Jonathan could keep him quiet) next, the three youngest Carrolls—even Notesy, who was barely able to walk. Being on a jury does not require much during most of a trial of this sort in the Circle, so the little ones could wander about from time to time if they got tired. At charging time Jonathan would gather the wanderers back and have them vote the right way—"Guilty" or "Not guilty." Trust Jonathan. Some of the burglars—whoever wanted to—were to fill out on the jury in the end, their parts being finished by then, except for hearing the verdict about themselves.

Judge Starr got her sixth-grade spelling book for the witnesses to take the oath on. There was a great deal of talk and confusion as there often is before a trial begins. Silence, however, settled over the courtroom when Katy again said in solemn tones, not giggling once, "Silence in the courtroom. The judge..."

"You mean 'monkey,'" said Anthony.

Oh, the pest! He was going to spoil everything. It was all right to joke ahead of time, but not
during
something important. Everyone glowered at Anthony, even the tiny ones, and Notesy put her thumb in her mouth. For a few moments, Anthony kept quiet, deciding whether he did or did not want to be put out of the game, or whether he could be more of a nuisance in it or out of it. He decided to be a nuisance in it.

"If you put me out," he bellowed so that his mother could hear—his house was not on the Circle. It was on Larrabee. But Mrs. Bigelow was usually in her kitchen or behind her rose bush, where she could keep track of unfavorable comments about her son—"why, I'll just tell my mother, that's what I'll do," said Anthony. "Moth-er!" He called his mother, not waiting to see whether he was going to be put out or not. For once Mrs. Bigelow did not answer, and Katy decided not to put Anthony out of the trial yet. He should have a chance to be in this trial and to remember it forevermore—tell it to his grandchildren, or at least his baby sister. So she went on, "The judge is going to speak." She pounded the trash can with the ice mallet, and it sounded like Mrs. Carroll making rain.